Apology Spurned
by The Phantom Black Sheep
Summary: (M/M slash.) Of realisations, rebuffed apologies, and shirking talks. (Sequel to 'Unspoken Words')


Title: Apology Spurned.   
  
Author: The Phantom Black Sheep.  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own them. Don't sue me.   
  
Rating: PG-13 Not much, mainly just talking. They say the 'F'word   
though. *Gasps.*   
  
Pairing: E/C (Sequel to 'Unspoken Words.')  
  
Description: Of realisations, rebuffed apologies, and shirking talks.  
  
////////////////////////////////////////////  
  
Chris didn't raise his eyes from his absent inspection of the dark wood table he sat at.   
He didn't look up when Buck Wilmington, his oldest friend, and probably the man   
who held the longest standing record of pissing Larabee off without receiving a bullet   
in return, jogged down the steps leading to the boarding rooms of the saloon   
(returning from direct orders to 'Wake that lazy assed southerner up'). He didn't look   
up when 10 minutes later, Ezra descended the very same stairs, and he certainly didn't   
look up when the both of them headed out of the batwing doors and made their way to   
the town jail.   
  
He just continued to stare downwards, toying absently with his full cup of black   
coffee, and nursing what felt like the mother of all headaches, the results of his foolish   
alcohol binge the previous night.  
  
Minutes of quiet chattering from the saloon's afternoon crowd and distracted bustling   
from outside later, Chris finally did look up. He climbed to his feet, pushing clean   
away from the table and still full cup of coffee, and with a set determination in his   
stride; he headed out of the saloon and towards the jail. The sudden change from the   
musky interior to the blazing sun sparked merciless pain in his skull, causing him to   
duck his head downwards and pull the brim of his Stetson lower. He glared out from   
beneath the minimal shade, calculating his steps to take him at such a speed that he   
neared the jail's doorway only when Buck had breezed out of the doors and had   
trotted off in search of JD.  
  
Chris followed his retreating movements absently, allowing himself that brief pause   
of his footsteps to let out a deep sigh; preparing himself for the conversation he had   
spent the better part of the morning planning out. He rotated his shoulders, first one   
way, then another, letting his head fall backwards. His Stetson slipped from his   
forehead to instead rest against his shoulder blades, the leather cord tugging gently at   
his neck.  
  
Finally satisfied that he was as prepared as possible to face the man within the jail, yet   
still afraid that it wouldn't be that much of a challenge for Ezra to dance him into a   
dizzying circle, twisting every word he had planned out to fit his own way of   
thinking, Chris pushed the door open and stepped inside, once again having to blink   
his vision back into focus, accommodating it to the once again dull murkiness of the   
jail's interior.  
  
"Mr. Larabee," Ezra's southern drawl greeted him casually, although the ice within the   
tone was still all too visible.  
  
"Ezra," Chris returned the greeting out of habit. He glanced ahead into the poorly lit   
shadows of the two adjoining cells, his gaze moving dismissively over the single   
prisoner, seated uncomfortably on the bed which had now developed a considerable   
dip in the centre due to housing many a rear, most of which ranging in the larger   
extremity of size.   
  
"He caused any bother yet?"  
  
Ezra lifted his gaze from the deck of cards he had previously been manipulating,   
following Chris's gaze to the miserable felon. Piercing green eyes blinked languidly   
before returning to the deck of cards, the fact that they didn't once stop on Chris   
wasn't missed by the gunslinger.  
  
"Nothing worth remarking on." Was the reply. Chris nodded to himself and stepped   
further into the room, he ignored the almost overwhelming urge to turn and walk   
away, almost as if the very room itself were warding Chris off, the air pushing him   
back out, away from where he wasn't welcome.  
  
Ezra didn't look up from his cards.  
  
"Listen, Ez. About what I said the other night-"  
  
"Although, he has been complaining of an upset stomach. Maybe it would be prudent   
to alert Mr. Jackson of this."  
  
Chris hesitated; he glanced again to the felon who, although from looking very sorry   
for himself, his head rested in upturned palms, didn't at all look like he was going to   
be witnessing a return of anything he had previously eaten.  
  
"Nathan can see him when he actually vomits," he dismissed. Ezra shrugged in reply,   
but apart from that, showed no other signs of hearing Chris. Larabee shuffled   
forwards a few more steps and uncomfortably came to stand in front of the jail's only   
desk, one of the few furnishings in the otherwise sparse room.  
  
"See, I'd had a bit to drink and-"  
  
"Apparently he remarked to Josiah that he was coming down with a cold before he   
attempted to purloin our fine bank," Ezra cut in as he continued to fan his cards from   
one hand to another, not shifting in his position behind the desk. A position that   
almost looked relaxed, if it weren't for the almost tangible stiffness residing down the   
length of his spinal cord.  
  
"I was out of line and I'm-"  
  
"That in itself is his own fault, but considering no one particularly wants to clean up   
after him, I suggest that the most wise of actions to partake would be to-"  
  
"Would you shut up for one second? I'm damn well trying to apologise here!"  
  
The cards within Ezra's grasp paused partway through their dance and for the first   
time since he had entered, Ezra turned his green eyes to stare up at Chris.  
  
Chris wanted to see some sort of reaction within those orbs, surprise, shock. Even   
anger. Just something that he could go by, something he could read. But there was   
nothing. Ezra's mask was, as per usual, perfect, not even a crack in the protective   
facade. His eye blank, his mouth lax, his eyebrows only twitching minutely at the   
sudden outburst. If it weren't for the suddenly stilled hands and the increased tension   
within the room, you wouldn't have guessed Chris's outburst had even been registered.  
  
Chris sighed, his sharp exhale cutting through the resulting silence like a knife.  
  
"Hell, haven't even started and now I gotta apologize for that too."  
  
"There's no need for you to apologize for either accounts, Mr. Larabee."  
  
"Yes there is, Ezra. I shouldn't have shot off at ya like I did, you weren't doin'   
anything and I guess I just saw ya as a target."  
  
"I understand completely, and believe me, there's no need for you to seek atonement."  
  
Chris glanced up from his inspection of the rusty inkwell imbedded within the desk.   
He was sure he'd never noticed that ink stain which looked suspiciously like a horse   
before.  
  
"You do?"  
  
"Yes, although at that given moment, no trouble was surfacing. That wasn't to say   
nothing could have happened," Ezra pocketed his cards and sat forwards in his chair.   
The old wood creaked against his movements, fighting him all the way.  
  
"I'm sure you would have done exactly the same thing with Buck, should the husband   
of one of his genteel guests he'd been entertaining show up. Or with Vin on the off   
chance that his being at the saloon should notify a group of bounty hunters of his   
presence." Green eyes, alight with a fury which simmered silently, not once surfacing   
yet still there, tainting the words of the gambler, turning each one into a figurative   
strike, the forked edges hitting Chris full on with a bruising subtlety.  
  
"Naturally, you were only looking out for the well-being of your town. The best cure   
is prevention rather then amendment."   
  
Ezra turned away from Chris, his eyelids lowering, shading the one thing that could   
give anything away or allow Chris even the faintest chance of reading him.   
  
"You would have reacted in exactly the same way with anyone of our cohorts."  
  
'Ah shit.' Chris thought to himself. He watched Ezra carefully, following his every   
move. Noting the stiff hand movements as his thumb ran repeatedly over his index   
finger, the tightening of his mouth, his jaw jutting out the barest of millimetres.  
  
Chris could almost see the new layer of shields being erected between them. This   
wasn't how this talk was meant to go, he was meant to apologise, he was meant to   
make it better. Somethin good was meant to come of this, anything was meant to   
come of this.  
  
Something had. He had successfully pushed Ezra further away.  
  
'Ah shit!'  
  
"Geesus you sure don't make this easy on a guy," Chris quietly pointed out, his voice   
a grim rumble. Ezra titled his head, barely a flicker of movement wasted in   
recognition he was still here.  
  
"I just told you there was no need to apologise, it no longer matters. Surely that eases   
this whole process."  
  
"Fuck it, Ez! I know what I did was uncalled fer, doesn't me sayin' I know count for   
anything?"  
  
"It wasn't uncalled for. You reacted on instinct and instinct can only be created from   
what is right in front of it."  
  
"Instinct can make you run from a fire into sinking sand."  
  
Silence answered this, silence broken only by the plaintive creaking of springs as the   
prisoner shifted on his bed, stretching his wiry form out, vainly trying to gain comfort   
in a place it dare not tread. The outlaw shifted again, dropping onto his stomach   
before, with a low groan, he hung over the edge of the bed and with a chocking heave,   
vomited.  
  
The wet splatter of stomach juices hitting cement turned both stomachs of the two   
men present.  
  
"I think now would be a good time to attain Mr. Jackson," Ezra spoke, his voice   
casual, yet his muscles tense. Chris nodded in defeat and turned out the room, having   
no choice but to accept that once again, he had managed to push away the man he   
valued most.  
  
/////////////////////////  
  
The remainder of the day passed without incident, both men keeping protectively to   
themselves.   
  
Gradually, the next day crawled by, just as quiet as the previous one, followed by   
another, and another, until an entire week had passed.  
  
During these seven days of stilted and painful silence, almost nobody noticed the   
ever-growing rift between Ezra and Chris. Almost nobody noticed how they barely   
spoke more then two words to each other. Almost nobody noticed the slowly   
smouldering bridges, just waiting for a gust of wind to ignite the embers and turn   
them into a raging fire  
  
Almost nobody noticed, but not everybody was blind.  
  
Somebody did notice. Somebody had been watching them, noting their behaviour and   
the subtle, almost unnoticeable changes. The slight slump of both shoulders, the   
heaviness of footsteps. The sighs they let slip when they believed nobody to be   
watching.  
  
Somebody had witnessed everything, and through their quiet observations, they had   
been learning. An outsider to the vicious circle, a mere casual observer who had only   
been watching for a period of one week had learnt and realised more knowledge then   
both the men in question could ever hope to have gained in what felt like a lifetime.  
  
On the seventh day of that week, just as the last rays of light disappeared beneath the   
umber horizon, blanketing the world in inky darkness. Josiah stretched his bear-like   
arms up above his head and came to the conclusion that he would need to give his   
friends a gentle shove in the right direction.  
  
If something wasn't done, if this rift wasn't healed, then not only would it tear Ezra   
and Chris apart, but it would destroy the rest of the seven as well.  
  
And he knew that both men were stubborn enough to remain ignorant to this fact until   
it was too late.  
  
There was no way in hell he would let that happen.  
  
////////////////////////////  
  
The lively chatter, merrily ignorant of the stilted music blasting from the out of tune   
piano within the saloon signalled yet another successful night of business.  
  
It was the end of the week, Sunday. Both a day of worshipping the Lord, and the only   
night off ranch hands were given.  
  
Not that the people of 'Four Corners' weren't kindly God-fearing folk, but when   
greeted with the crossroads of remaining at home, painfully sober and choking down   
burnt meat, a poor attempt at a Sunday roast whilst saying grace. Or going to the   
saloon and basking within the musky glory of alcohol, gambling and working girls.  
  
The Lord just never stood a chance.  
  
Drink after drink was being purchased, numerous amber shots of whiskey were being   
downed, and countless amounts of money were being lost and won at the gambling   
tables. There wasn't a spare inch of free space for lively bodies, each trying in vain to   
replay various amusing incidents, artfully dancing in between bodies, angling elbows   
just so, making sure they weren't digging into others' ribs. It was often rather   
remarkable how graceful one could be in a house built especially for drink.   
  
The jolly mood, added with the sleepy tone of the oil lamps lining the walls was most   
definitely infectious, a fact picked up immediately upon stepping into the threshold   
through the batwing doors.  
  
Chris was no exception to this fact. He smiled to himself as he slipped in and out   
around strange bodies, making his way to the table full of lawmen in one corner of the   
room. He'd just returned from his shift on afternoon patrol duty, having been replaced   
by Vin for the nightshift and was now in search of a good strong drink.  
  
Buck grinned to him and kicked out the chair beside him, Josiah nodded and poured   
an extra glass of amber liquid; Nathan smiled amiably whilst JD waved him over with   
an eager grin, just in case Chris happened to not notice them in their usual place.  
  
Chris nodded to each of them and sat down in the offered chair. He grabbed hold of   
the shot glass and with a toss of the head born out of years of practice; he easily   
downed the intoxicating drink.  
  
"Where's Ezra?" He asked. The fact that the southerner wasn't seated in his usual   
position beside Josiah and Buck didn't slip past him.  
  
Truth be told. Chris had begun to realise that he hadn't seen Ezra all that much as of   
late. In fact, the only time he recalled laying eyes on the brightly clad gambler had   
been a number of fleeting glances as Ezra disappeared upstairs or out of the batwing   
doors. That man could really keep a grudge.  
  
"Went up ta bed," Buck replied around his drink, unwittingly confirming Chris's   
suspicions. Larabee's expression momentarily darkened with remorse as he fingered   
his shot glass. Instead of moving to refill it, he pushed it aside, suddenly not all that   
attracted to the numb world the liquid induced.  
  
Josiah watched him closely with a thoughtful frown.  
  
"Bit early for him, isn't it?" The night patrol started at ten, Vin had only come to   
relieve him ten minutes ago.  
  
Nathan started at this, slamming his beer mug down onto the table. The frothy liquid   
spilled over the sides and gathered in sticky pools on the already tacky wood of their   
table.  
  
"You see? That's exactly what I said! Ezra never goes to sleep unless the birds are   
singin'," he shook his head darkly as he glanced around at his friends.  
  
"Mark my words, that man's getting a cold."  
  
"Nate, you checked his forehead before he went up, remember?" Buck groaned. In   
remembrance, Nathan lifted a hand to absently rub his shoulder gingerly. Chris   
smirked secretly, wondering just how the southerner had reacted to that apparent   
show of 'mother-hen' antics  
  
"You said yourself he didn't feel hot."  
  
"Doesn't mean he won't get sick."  
  
Josiah, who had been silent up until this point, instead watching Chris intensely, let   
out a deep rumbling sigh and methodically poured himself a glass of whiskey.  
  
"I don't think it's a sickness what's disturbing Ez," he rumbled, not taking his eyes   
from Chris. Larabee's head whipped up, dark eyes focusing on Josiah in a surprised   
glare; the knowing tone within the preacher's voice struck a nerve within the   
gunslinger.   
  
Josiah continued to stare at him, his lips quirking into a sombre smile. He tilted his   
head towards the door.  
  
Larabee sighed and without a word stood, pushing away from the table. The screech   
of his chair running unsteadily back on the wooden floor was drowned in the lively   
guffawing within the room. He turned towards the door and walked outside,   
shouldering his way past a gathering of men just inside the entrance. After a few   
minutes, Josiah tossed back his whiskey, held up a hand to cut the others seated at the   
table off before they invaded him with questions, and followed Chris out of the saloon   
into the cool night air.  
  
///////////////////  
  
"What do you want, Josiah?" Chris's quiet, yet demanding words asked before   
Sanchez had even fully exited the saloon. Josiah blinked slowly before answering,   
accommodating his eyes to the sudden change from the warm saloon lamplight to the   
shadow filled glow of the outside street fires.   
  
He moved slowly along the boardwalk until he came to where Chris perched, his legs   
dangling above the dusty road below. With a tired exhale of air; he lowered his   
looming frame into a crouch beside Chris, his feet easily planting firmly on the   
trampled dirt of the street.  
  
"You like him, don't you?"   
  
Chris remained silent, he refused to look to the side, refused to acknowledge Josiah   
any further then he previously had done.  
  
"No," Josiah spoke softly, correcting himself.  
  
"You more then like him. I don't know if it's love, but it's scaring you, whatever it is."  
  
"What the hell do you know?" The response was sharp, each word cut off, distorted   
into a growl.   
  
There was a moment of silent contemplation before the large preacher responded.  
  
"If I should die and leave you here awhile. Be not like others sore undone, who keep   
long vigils, by the silent dust, and weep," Josiah began. His gentle voice rolled into   
the surrounding darkness, lingering on the silent air. The distant echo of bustling   
noise within the saloon not far away seemed almost to drown out completely in   
respect of the oak-like voice rumbling the bittersweet poem. Seeing as his only reply   
from Chris was a tense silence, he continued.   
  
"For my sake turn again to life and smile. Nerving thy heart and trembling hand to do,   
something to comfort other hearts than thine. Complete these dear unfinished tasks of   
mine, And I, perchance may therein comfort you," he tapered off slowly, the last few   
words turning into no more then a fading whisper.  
  
Chris remained silent for a few minutes, his form so tense it very nearly trembled.   
Something that Josiah pretended to ignore, pretending the sea of shadows flickering   
over his features masked such movements.  
  
Finally, after a long pause, Chris let out a shaking breath, almost a mournful sigh and   
hung his head.  
  
"What the hell's that supposed to mean?" He ground out, his voice containing an   
unspoken threat. Warning Josiah to back off from unwelcome territory.  
  
"I think the message speaks clearly brother," Josiah replied gently. He wasn't one to   
listen to threats, spoken or unspoken.  
  
"I'm not meaning that," Chris snapped. His head whipped up, eyes blazing with fury   
burning through the fleeting firelight to glare at the man seated beside him.  
  
"What the hell's you telling me this supposed to mean?"  
  
"What do you think?"  
  
"I think you don't know what you're on about."  
  
"Well I think you know it's not just yourself you're hurting. What I don't think you   
know is it's three people, not just two."  
  
The fury melted away, along with the resolve. Josiah could have sworn he saw a look   
of pain flicker over those lightly weathered features before the blonde head turned   
away from him.  
  
"What the hell do you know?" Chris repeated his previous words, yet the tone was   
laced with sadness, remorse, and pain. It was weak, almost pleading for an answer.  
  
"Nothing." The preacher noticed the slump of Larabee's shoulders at this answer, the   
man still thinking he was hidden within the comforting blanket of darkness.  
  
"But I think she'd want you to live again," he was done with skirting around the topic,   
sometimes the straightforward approach worked best. It shocked. Stripped away   
defences, revealed true feelings, true fears, true needs.  
  
"She'd want me to keep her memory alive."  
  
"You can't do that unless you live yourself."  
  
"It's not that easy." Chris sighed. He lifted a hand and ran it through his blonde hair,   
pushing the unruly strands from his vision.   
  
"Nothing ever is." The preacher quietly pointed out. Chris turned to look at him one   
last time, his eyes glistening as they reflected the dieing rays of the street fire. He   
blinked slowly, almost mournfully before slowly pushing himself to his feet and   
walking away. Josiah watched his slow process down the boardwalk, waiting for the   
pause he knew he was coming.  
  
He wasn't disappointed.  
  
"I can't do it, Josiah, it's too hard. I can't lose her again...I can't lose him.... I...I can't   
see how to stop either of those happening," he hung his head and peered half over his   
shoulder, the right side of his face radiating a cold glow.  
  
"You think chasing him away will help stop that happening?" Josiah asked.  
  
"This way's easier." The man shook himself, rolling his shoulders as he silently   
repeated it, convincing himself that what he had just claimed was indeed true.  
  
"It's easier."  
  
Josiah shook his head, sadness radiating from his blue eyes, a sadness lost on Chris   
who was once again moving away, not letting Josiah continue. The shadows of the   
night engulfed him fully as he turned a corner, moving to his own lodgings within   
town.  
  
Remaining where he sat on the edge of the boardwalk, the preacher's eyes moved   
from where he had last seen Chris standing to the darkened windows of the rooms   
above the saloon. Somewhere, in one of those dwellings, he knew the other half of   
something which refused to join together, yet couldn't survive on it's own resided.   
Most probably pondering and living out his own silent demons.  
  
With one last shake of his head, he climbed to his feet and trudged wearily across the   
street towards his battered church, positioned near the outskirts of town. 


End file.
